


The Man Is Begotten By The Choice (MAJOR SPOILERS)

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Angst, Bad Decisions, BioShock Spoilers, Blood and Violence, Canon Related, Dialogue, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Gratuitous German, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Major Canonical Character(s), Male Protagonist, Mild Language, Mind Screw, Minor Canonical Character(s), Moral Dilemmas, Multiple chapters, Murder, Murderous protagonist, Mythology References, Not Canon Compliant, Not Shippy, Rapture (BioShock), References to Canon, Revenge, Spoilers, The main character is making bad choices, Work In Progress, Would You Kindly (BioShock), genetic manipulation, might not end happily, probably out of character, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Little moth, silent god. Sick genetic regurgitation of false choices and the simulated sounds of Overlook, Kansas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another Bioshock thing I had swirling in my head and thought to write it out.  
> I think I have some pretty cool plans for this’n. You just wait.
> 
> — Minor Update: If y’all want to know anything like headcanons, toss some questions!
> 
>  
> 
> Also!: There. Are. Spoilers! Don’t read if you don’t wish to be spoiled!  
> Otherwise, enjoy!

That sepia photo depicted a little farmhouse that Jack now knew was nothing more than a fever dream.

He had left his real memories behind, sitting in a pool of body-temperature amniotic fluid.

And he had been looked on by his three “parents”—creators and manipulators—disregarded by his true parents.

Mother murdered, father driven mad by a killing devotion to his rotting city of fish and ADAM addicts. Sitting on a throne while holding a knife to his own throat.

Thinking back earlier, Jack had grown to like the smell of cigarettes—at the time he didn’t know why.

And there was the medicinal savour that seemed to follow him through his dreams. Comfort.

One day, he had been unceremoniously shipped off—made into a sleepwalker for whenever Fontaine needed his damned Ace. No doubt to get his lying ass out of the fire that he had set by himself.

But he did not remember this part. No. It had effectively been _erased_. Blocked out. But memories are difficult things to control—and even harder to alter. For the truth will _always_ peek through the cracks—whispering with maddening frequency.

 _Jack Wynand_ , they said he was. _From Overlook, Kansas. Farmboy and handyman._

And yet he wasn’t.

He was more of a... Jack Ryan. Hell, maybe even a Jack _Fontaine_.

The point being, he was not his own man.

Blood was once truth, but now even _he_ could no longer tell what his blood said, so diluted by the foul, glowing ooze extracted from the mouldering bodies of Rapture’s finest _saps_.

Now he no longer felt like Jack.

But a husk of Jack.

Well, something less than that.

A memory of a man named Jack that never truly existed. At least, not beyond some conman’s frenzied groping in the dark for a substantial grift—creating a homunculus for his _magnum opus_. His masterpiece of Shakespearean irony.

And yet, Jack found himself at a loss of what to call this story—this script. This act. Tragedy written in blood and drowned in saltwater ‘till it became a comedy.

There was something Aesopian in all of this.

Descending to the fathoms of decay, Jack tasted the salty air, tossed up by the Bathysphere’s slinking downward path.

“Where’s Atlas?” Jack had demanded, arriving to ground zero, thumbing the button of the radio.

“I _am_ Atlas, lad.” The voice responded. Startle evident in that... _insufferable_ Irish twang. “ _Would you kindly_ —“

That phrase, which guided Jack from birth to plane crash. That vile tongue carried it into every sentence.

_Powerful phrase—familiar phrase._

A phrase which seemed to control Jack. Like an invisible force.

An invisible force, like God. Or that _Great Chain_ that Ryan so liked to mention.

He could see the significance of links down in Rapture, now.

“—Pick up that shortwave radio?”

Jack did so, partially out of principal.

”What’s your name, Boyo?”

He looked down with loathe at the big ugly radio in his hand, the beginning of every single problem Jack would face.

All in this one, miserable machine—through which his summoner said his lies which pointed him to his illusions of progress.

Which Jack was now aware of.

“Jack Wynand.” Jack said after a pause through the radio to his guide. “My name is Jack Wynand. And I’m here for you.”

“What? What’s your angle, Jack?” The voice questioned.“I _need_ your help.” The falsifier struggled to remain in character.

“I figured, but first I have some questions, Atlas.”

“And what is that, I wonder?”

“Your family, Atlas, where is your family?”

“My—“

“Where?” Jack repeated himself sharply.

“They’re below, in Neptune’s—“

“ _Neptune’s Bounty_ , right?” Jack interrupted Atlas. “Patrick and Moira.” He said. “ _That’s_ who they are?” 

“You’re talkin’ nonsense, Boyo.” Atlas commented—then a chilled little whisper wafted through the static. “But you’re _bang on_... who are you? _What_ are you?”

“I’m the man who’s comin’ right for you, Atlas.” Jack said, contention rose in his tone. “Jack mother _fucking_ Wynand is coming. But I will play your little game of choices, to the bitter end, Atlas.”

“ _Choices_ —“ Atlas sputtered, audibly leaning into the radio. “Me wife an’ child are stuck down there, and you’re coming at me about _choices_.” Atlas quavered. “I _have_ no choice.”

“Neither do I, Atlas.” Jack rumbled, in a faux southern accent—instilled in him through that goddamned conditioning. “Neither. Do. I.”


	2. Scripting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack begins his story anew—but with a few changes to his narrative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is totally not going to be super streamlined, but I wanted to continue this because I liked some of the ideas that came to me!
> 
> Also!  
> Once again! Spoilers!

When Jack had set foot in Rapture for the first time, it had been when he was Jack Wynand.

And not whatever golem was cooked up by a man desperate to claim rights to a dying ecosystem.

“You’re gonna help me, Atlas.” Jack said—there was no other option.

“If it’ll get me family free, then _fine_.” The man said begrudgingly. The tinny echo—familiar. And comfortingly so.

“That is to say you’re steering me the right way, bud. We’ll see if your family comes out of this.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth,” Atlas stressed. “I _am_.”

“We’ll see, Atlas. Tell me where I’m headed.”

“The only path _not_ shot to hell, Jack.”

“You keep your distance, and I’ll uphold my end. We are not friends, I wanna keep it that way.”

“Right.” Atlas conceded. “I’m fine with that, but you gotta _trust_ me.”

“And you’ll have it—when you _earn_ it.” Jack hopped over a felled beam. “But I figure you knew that.”

“There’s splicers, Jack,” Atlas warned. “Would you kindly find yourself a weapon? Would rather you stay alive...”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

Jack knelt down and picked up the familiar wrench—forged in Rapture.

“What the _hell_ is your problem?”

“And wouldn’t you like to know?” Jack griped.

“Nobody in Rapture has seen anything quite like you, Boyo.” Atlas said, bemusedly.

“I know.” Jack rose his dominant hand, holding the wrench.

 

* * *

 

 He stared at his wrist, the one his first splice took place. That first, far too familiar sensation of burning was a vivid recollection. Mind-bending.

The bright blue sparks flashing behind his eyes. Stem cells fusing with his own, rewriting God’s blueprints for him, making him even _less_ of a Jack of his own making.

Then the darkness had followed.

“ _ADAM_ , right?” He said to Atlas, marvelling at the syringe—glowing. He was loathe to admit he was lonely, needing a voice.

“Yes.” Atlas replied. “Safe to assume you know what it is, _and_ what it does?”

“Even better—I’m pretty sure I’ve done it before.”

“Ain’t possible, Jack,” Atlas said, half-disregarding Jack’s memories. “Your first splice’s like no other—they call it the _mum of all migraines_ for a reason.”

“Sounds like a load, Atlas, but since we’re _partners_ , I’ll go with it.” Jack felt the needle’s body, clutching it in his hand.

“Sure.”

Jack had prepared all he could for it, but the memories could only do so much to ready him as he took that leap of faith—for the second time. And repeated that plunge that made him the newest member of Rapture’s extended family of lunatics.

Changing oneself to survive, _encouraged_.

He dropped the needle, grabbing his arm which proceeded to spasm and tense, trying to get away from the pain—trying to rip itself clean off his body.

It forced him to walk—backward this time around—over that goddamned stairway railing again, landing with a thud, cutting off his brief cry of pain and confusion.

Just as planned.

And he was taunted as planned, by them who endeavoured to gut him and tear out the light in his belly.

Cackling slack-jawed at Jack’s half-lifeless, drained body.

Calling him little fish.

But were cut off by an even _bigger_ fish.

It had come to feed his loathsome little pool of ADAM. This thing, groaning and creaking, with its broken voice.

The root of Rapture’s problems.

A Big Daddy—a victim as much as any. And its horrid little tagalong.

The creature had a voice that could incite many conflicting feelings in a man or woman.

But down in Rapture those feelings weren’t like topside, Jack learned.

Little girls’ voices had different connotations on both fronts. Ones instilling fear, or perhaps a hunger.

The thoughts of present faded away.

 

* * *

 

“You alright? For someone who claims to know the ropes, you sure don’t _act_ like a veteran.” Atlas said as Jack began to come to.

“Acting’s something you’re familiar with, isn’t it?” Jack slurred, staggering back to his upright position.

“I make a _great_ radio host.” Atlas joked.

“Save the humour.” Jack said—however amused.

“Ah—either way, nothin’ like a fistful o’ lightning, is there?” Atlas quipped. “But to you, apparently there _is_.”

Jack hit the door’s lever with a bolt of lightning, the door slowly rose up. “Yeah. Makes a good persuader.”

After a while. Atlas spoke again, as Jack continued on his way through a glass death trap of a hallway.

“You know, I have a _lot_ of questions, lad.”

“Which one’s the most relevant, Atlas?”

“Where the hell are you from, boyo?”

“Overlook, Kansas.” Jack replied. “A farm boy.”

“Figures, had you pinned for someone more rural, didn’t seem like a city type...”

“You?”

“You’re asking _me_ where _I’m_ from?” Atlas laughed a little too lightly. “Shocker.”

“Well?”

“The countryside—small towns, fields, sheep, that sort o’ thing.”

“Not a city type?”

“I never did like the hustlin’. Too much happening—too many people out there who’d elect to stab you in the back.”

“Right.”

“Why are you after me?” Atlas asked, startlingly calm.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Jack mused, cynically.

After one cycle, it really took a lot out of you. Jack continued his vague monologue. “You haven’t seen through _my_ eyes. But I’ve already said I’ll play your game, whoever you choose to be, Atlas. I’m ready.”

“But you’re still going to help me find me family, right?” Atlas asked, hopeful.

“As the script foretells.”

“ _Script?_ ” Atlas seemed baffled—but rightfully so. “You’re a strange fellow, Jack. But you’re... my only hope.” Atlas said with a tone equal to a ghost.

“For Moira and Patrick?” Jack replied dryly. “Your ‘wife and child’?”

“Yes, they’re all I care about in this goddamned underwater ‘utopia’.”

_Certainly living it up as Atlas, aren’t you?_

 

* * *

 

The time crawled, as Jack trudged, slogged through the world he knew so little about—an outsider, but also someone who knew everything there was to know.

The fatalism kicked in, and he knew all too well that things would play out as the script said. As the world saw fit.

The trust in the world had been destroyed long ago.

“Boyo, you’re nearin’ the Kashmir.” Atlas said, voice emanating from the big ugly thing hanging from Jack’s hip.

“I know.”

“Do you, now?” Atlas said, growing audibly irritated. “And how do _you_ know that? You certainly _aren’t_ a local, lad. Why don’t you try _appreciating_ that I’m stickin’ _my_ neck out for _your_ benefit?” Atlas scoffed. “Even though you’ve made it quite clear that you’re not on my side, why ain’t you... digressing from your little path if you hate it so much?”

“There are rules.” Jack said. “Rules I have to follow.”

“Rules, lad? Or just habit?”

“Who the hell knows?” Jack grumbled. “I sure don’t...”

“Lift’s dead ahead, pal. Make sure you don’t drown in your—ah— _foresight_.”

“Will do.” Jack said. He entered a little elevator waiting room.

He stepped onto the elevator as the glass lobby’s ceiling began to crack, then break above him.

The elevator began to move upward. Like he recalled.

“So gonna give me the whole ‘save me family’ spiel?” Jack said, hands in his pockets, looking over the dilapidation of the city’s welcoming centre. “Going to convince me to be your errand boy?”

“No,” Atlas said concisely, as Jack ogled the bronzed city. “‘Cause obviously you wouldn’t believe me, lad. So why tell you anything—you’ll just turn your nose up at it.”

“I don’t remember Atlas being such a quitter.” Jack said coolly, watching a deco-inspired statue gently pass his view. “Can’t handle the illusion falling apart?”

“You sound like _you_ have the same problem, boyo.” Atlas fired back from the static.

“I just want things to play out, Atlas, how _I_ want them to.” Jack crossed his arms. “I want to control my story.”

“Control is the most dangerous delusion, Jacky.” Atlas said sombrely. “Ryan learned _that_ the hard way when his little _metropolis_ went to hell on his watch. The man had vision. I _admired_ him. But then he went and threw it all away—for _what_? Pride? Guilt? Or maybe he got bored o’ playing God.” Atlas laughed ruefully. “Either way, you’re on the path to the Kashmir, now, boyo. Get back on your ‘script’, would you kindly, ‘else I’ll start getting suspicious you’re plannin’ something.”

Jack remembered every little ambient creak as he headed toward the destroyed Kashmir.

Tables overturned, bloody carpeting and a flooded dining room floor. Bullet holes in the walls, and smashed bottles.

Scorched buntings celebrating 1959—segments of the celebratory garment were draped across suspiciously human-shaped lumps.

“You and your cronies did this, didn’t you?”

“ _Cronies_ isn’t really what _I’d_ call them.” Atlas admitted. “Sounds a bit like you’re taking a few pointers from ole Ryan, there, boyo.”

“In case you _haven’t_ noticed, I’m not exactly fond of you—and _cronies_ sounds better than _minions_ , in my opinion.”

“Correction—a _lot_ of pointers.” Atlas seemed to wince as he spoke. “This place must be _Heaven_ for you, lad. Nothing but vainglorious types here. What a riot—you’ll get what’s coming to you for choosing to snub a man who’s only trying to help you out.”

“You wanna help me?” Jack said fiercely, turning toward the stairs leading down to the flooded floor below. “Then keep your helping hand to yourself.”

“A regular Ryan’s boy.” Atlas mulled. “To think I believed it was providence that you came down here seeking me. Turns out that whatever’s out there’s an expert at pluckin’ heartstrings.” Atlas hissed snidely. “And last I checked—I could just leave you to your lonesome. Now, I don’t care what you do with _me_ —just rescue my family and I’ll consider us even.”

“I’d call that fair, Atlas.” Jack said coldly, looking down the stairway at a Splicer hammering errantly at the kitchen door.

“Can’t wait to watch you choke on your devotion to rewriting that ‘script’ o’ yours, boyo.”

Jack ignored him, stalking the grounds of the once-stunning Kashmir, he approached the splicer downstairs—with a hard wrench blow to the back of the skull.

Jack did the same with the second one inside the kitchen—a woman, shrieking her disdain for the prison she chose to occupy.

Her bullets whizzed by harmlessly—scraping over the sleeve and shoulder of his beige cable-knit sweater—then Jack delivered the first and last blow to her head.

Jack almost wished he could feel what fear had gripped him in that moment a long time ago. The bodycount skyrocketing by the hour courtesy of a man jumping at ghosts, clinging to Atlas as the one miserable thing that kept him sane.

A voice to a man he never knew—who never existed beyond a helpful guidance with a gleeful lilt.

But all he felt was awareness. And boredom. And shame.

His path was clear now, and he elected to talk to Atlas again, headed back up to the second floor. “So, what _is_ your ideology?”

“What, got lonely?” Atlas chided. “What’s it to _you_?”

“What do you believe in, Atlas?”

“Hmph—well, I believe in a lot of ‘ologies, Jack.” Atlas said broadly, a little wistfully. “But I believe in a world where help is not charity. And where free does not mean unearned. And revolutionary does not mean parasitic.”

 _Hear, hear_ , Jack thought to himself as he slipped into the mens’ side restroom on the second floor.

“And you, what’s _your_ fantasy world?” Atlas needled, then released a dry laugh. “Surely something about tireless self worship an’ treading on the flowers instead o’ smelling them. Afeard of appreciating things, _huh_?”

“Really, I wish I knew.” Jack said evenly, genuinely.

“Wishes are meant to be made, Jack. Perhaps you’ll learn on the way, friend,” Atlas seemed optimistic. “Maybe you’ll learn change isn’t so far off—all you need’s the wish, the motivation, and the willingness to give it a push.”

 

* * *

 

When Jack stood over the little show floor on the rafters, looking down on the bloody red carpeting, he saw _it_. The little child-shaped creature, humming to the tune of _Frère Jaques_ playing in her head.

“Poor things,” said Atlas, mournfully so. “Wouldn’t let ‘em come within a foot o’ me with that... _needle_ of theirs, but I’ll admit, there’s something a little bit pitiful.”

“Wasn’t aware you felt that way.” Jack said under his breath.

“They make me think o’ me little Patrick—how I exposed him to this place, where this is as normal as breathing.” Atlas took himself a breath. “People die, then they’re recycled.” He shuddered. “Would you kindly keep going? I can’t listen to her singin’ anymore...”

“Squirming, Atlas?” Jack jabbed, as he continued to creep along the metal suspension, wrench tucked into his belt loop.

“Of course I am.” Atlas was hushed. “Rapture runs on things that squirm. Down here, it’s as normal as rain and sunshine up top.”

“I just don’t understand, why is this so normal?”

“When normal ceases being normal, we begin to make it normal ourselves.” Atlas’ voice was a shrug of uncertainty. “One day, a man starts settin’ fires with his fingertips, or starts a generator with the palm o’ his hand—after a while, we start to regard it as second nature. Normal. Everyday. You don’t see that topside.”

Jack descended the stairs to look through the half-covered window, at the drooling little beast—hemming and hawing at the body lying splayed out on the floor, a bullet hole point blank betwixt the brows.

She called the corpse an angel and stabbed it with the foot-long needle again with a drawn-out coo of happiness.

Jack grimaced, watching.

And he once again was bearing witness to why the Little Sisters were off limits.

A splicer spared a glance, then a stare—then a grin as he began to stalk for her.

He put a finger to his lips, lifting his gun.

As if to say: “Die quietly.”

A splicer struck the “child” with the butt of his revolver as she screamed in terror—to alert her watchdog.

Jack watched on in a trance.

The splicer’s blood showered the window as the Big Daddy’s drill spun in his ribcage—the guy ragdolling about—then his whole upper body came busting through the glass.

Then the Big Daddy stalked off. Taking his little brat with him.

“I imagine that was one of them Big Daddies?” Atlas said casually after the footsteps faded away. Jack tugged at a length of chain, holding the door shut.

“Heard that godawful racket?” Jack said, wedging the wrench between one of the chain links and sharply rotating the wrench to sever the binding.

“Every little detail.” Atlas confirmed. “Hard to ignore it.” The chain landed with a thud at Jack’s foot.

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to ignore it.”

“You know, I’m not gonna say I _believe_ your whole ‘script’ business—but I need a precious few answers. Gone just about far enough without some form o’ closure.”

“Let me ask you a question, Atlas.”

“Do I gotta choice?” Atlas sounded intensely bitter.

“Would telling you matter?” Jack asked forcibly. “Would it change _anything_ at all?”

“It depends on who you’re asking—me or yourself.”

“Touché.” Jack piped up.

“What if I told you more about my family?” Atlas said—eager enough to sway Jack.

“Perhaps,” Jack said, kneeling behind a corner whilst surveying some scavenging splicers. He wound up a handful of lightning and struck the little pool of water underneath them. “What’s _their_ story?”

“Me Patrick’s about ten years old,” Atlas began, the smile in his voice evident. “Smart boy, likes swimming, loves to draw. Boy looks more like his ma.”

“And your wife?”

“Ahh, _Moira_.” Atlas said, smitten. “She’s the music o’ my heart. Beautiful as the dickens. I should have known better than to involve them in _my_ war—Ryan’s goons had both her and Patrick stuck in a submarine in Neptune’s Bounty... like he was _darin’_ me to come get them, the smug bastard. But since then, me access has been cut off—the daft _sonofabitch_ locked it down.”

“So we’re headed to Neptune’s Bounty, right?”

“Yes.”

“How’re we getting there?” Jack said, jumping down the incline and into the little pool of stagnating water.

“Should be the bulkhead right up ahead, lad.” Atlas said. Pacified by talking about his “family”—but now he was stewing at the thought of his “family’s” entrapment. How tiresome.

Jack’s mind went two ways at once, and he hated it.

Knew that this man was going to destroy him one way or another.

But something similar to concern— _care_ —began to grow in the back of his mind.

But that was all just a part of living now.

Jack set the next wheel a’turning. And Atlas’ voice definitely let him know this as he swore Ryan’s name in the background.

 _On to Medical_ , Jack thought.

“Ryan’s blocked us off,” Atlas said frustratedly. “But you probably knew it was coming, didn’t you?” He huffed. “I’m starting to get real sick o’ your pretension, boyo.”

“Yes, but you need me. I could just as easily leave you _twisting in the wind_ , Atlas. And your charade will mean nothing.”

”Of course,” Atlas paused, then returned to speaking. “Head to Medical, would you kindly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Jack does have rules in this: he cannot call out the end of the story just yet, and he cannot draw attention to “would you kindly” as that would break logic.
> 
> — There is tons of dialogue in this, I know, and not too much focus on action—but the idea is that more is being revealed less by action and more by words. However, Jack doesn’t particularly seem to be feeling himself.


	3. Sequence Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack figures to defy who he was in the past—choosing himself over another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaah, this is a messed-up chapter. I wanted to show how Jack really isn’t feeling like himself now.  
> (Spoiler, he doesn’t save the Little Sister.)

Jack was now in the little room with the bulkhead leading to Medical.

“You alright?” Atlas asked. “Them splicers get you good at all?”

“No, I’m fine.” Jack rubbed his shoulder where he was sure he was bruising. “A little ragged, but otherwise... okay.”

“Thank God,” Atlas breathed a long sigh of relief. “Now, get to that bulkhead, would you kindly? No time to waste, boyo.”

“Will do.” Jack said.

But first, it was time to meet the _Great Man._

The bulkhead door slid shut before Jack could enter.

Atlas proceeded with his assurance to get the thing open before Jack got himself rubbed out.

Ryan’s face took up the screen in glorious, staticky black-and-white.

Taunting. Threatening. Accusing him of being a CIA or KGB mole.

_Ain’t that just like Ryan?_

Jack crossed his arms as Ryan continued to monologue.

Then saw the human-shaped shadows began to gather at the window and makeshift weapons began to beat at the glass.

Bringing back that false sense of urgency.

“Hey! _Jack!_ Get your ass a’moving—door’s open!” Atlas called him back to reality.

Jack obliged, hopping into the bulkhead. They were safe, and the place was quiet.

Jack took a breath after a long time. “So how’d your family get involved in this?”

“Ryan sought anything—like a rug—to pull out from under my feet. He learned about Patrick and Moira from inside sources, got them swiped right on my watch.” Atlas said hatefully. “Whatever you do, I’d appreciate if you would put the _sonofabitch_ in his place in the end.”

 

* * *

 

They came to the first sight of the Medical Pavilion, the image of “perfection” pasted to the wall and littered with various speculums and diagrams. The sciences of beauty.

“Welcome to Steinman’s bloody _playground_.” Atlas said softly, treading carefully around the word. “I came here once, got some minor work done.”

“You did?” Jack squinted at the unintelligible writing all over the poster.

“Before the man turned into a devotee of—what was it?— _Aphrodite_.”

“What work are you talking about?” Jack stepped over a felled gurney.

“Sometimes you just don’t like the face you ended up with. Moira was right _pissed_.” Atlas laughed, reminiscing. “I don’t hold it against her, though. I was an idiot to think that little tweaks would change her feelings for me.”

“Did she forgive you?”

“We both admitted we were wrong about things. Never told Patrick about it, though, as far as he knew, nothing was any different.”

“Ah, I see.”

Jack kept going until he got to the Bathysphere station—and was promptly blocked off from progressing.

“Ah, _damnit_.” Atlas swore. “Locked down tight—seems Steinman’s not keen on letting you go that easy. You’ll have to meet him on even ground, boyo.”

“Gotta put him down?”

“‘Fraid so. He’s got the _only_ key.”

“Yep.” Jack shrugged. “Well, ought to get it over with.”

“Steinman’s quite a piece o’ work,” Atlas commented. “Get buzzed enough and a man’ll see whatever justifies their business—in this case, Steinman’s meetin’ with half the Greek pantheon before lunch and communing with one of ‘em for tea and philosophical babbling. Spliced outta his mind.”

“I see.” Jack examined a bloody smear on the wall—in calligraphy—stressing how ADAM was the path to beauty. “You bought into his... ah... _philosophical babbling_?”

“In some cases, looking good pays, but if you can’t pay to look good—just becomes a pointless effort. ‘Sides, I went in when he wasn’t like this. Something happened with the guy that made him go all—er— _loopy_.”

“Like _ADAM_?”

“Worse, _inspiration_ happened. Folks came out looking worse an’ worse—but to Steinman, _that_ was beauty. That was his vision.”

Around which point, feedback whistled over the place:

_Someone has entered my— **Aphrodite’s** —den of beauty. My domain of the goddess’ bidding._

The speaker cleared his throat.

_Where are you? Perhaps, we can fix what ails you, my faraway friend. For ADAM **denies** us any excuse for **not** being **beautiful** —coming here must mean you seek enlightenment on the topic of aesthetics. You’ll find me in the Surgery wing. The goddess will be waiting to guide my hand._

Steinman’s voice buzzed out of existence.

Jack’s heart seemed to skip about six beats—this was different.

Steinman never called for him. Never invited him to his “gallery” or otherwise.

“Seems like Steinman’s _more_ than just loopy.” Atlas stated. “Seems he’s _eager_ to make your acquaintance, Jack.”

“This isn’t right,” Jack said numbly.

“Makes a man wonder.” Atlas mumbled. “Running dry on people to inflict his visions on. Something about this is off colour, lad.”

“I’d say.”

“Make sure you get out with your jugular intact, would you kindly?”

 

* * *

 

Jack had headed on the path he remembered, but something else was off.

“The tunnel to surgery’s screwed.” Jack said to Atlas. “One of the pipes—“

“Yeah, some o’ the pipe pressure dropped around that area just now, take the detour.... through, ah... the lounge, I think.”

“Lounge, got it.”

_Red curtains, looks like a goddamn ballroom. I remember._

Jack entered the hallway, watching through the window while a struggle between a splicer and a Big Daddy was in progress.

“ _Gimme the fuckin’ kid, you freak!_ ” The splicer said, Jack watched the man take his shotgun and slam it through one of the glowing red glass faceplates, shattering it, then pulling the trigger.

This disjointed, pained sort of whale call sounded through the glass to Jack. “ _Die, you big ugly bastard!_ ” The splicer demanded, shooting into it again.

Then he reloaded the gun.

Jack witnessed the Big Daddy’s tragic fall, the Little Sister begged for her caretaker to wake up—while dark red blood pooled around it.

“ _Daddy—Daddy, no! Please!_ ” She knelt in the puddle, shaking the great beast’s shoulder. “ _Don’t leave me!_ ”

The Big Daddy offered a slight rumble in response, reaching out weakly to her.

The splicer shot it a third time in the helmet just as he managed to touch her tiny hand.

The splicer dropped the gun, looking at the Little Sister. “Now, _babydoll_ ,” the guy said in a mangled cockney accent. “It’s jus’ you an’ me, an’ all the tasty ADAM in your belly.” He picked up a felled lead pipe and dragged it up into his hand. “All for _me_.”

“ _Jack, what are you doing!?_ ” Atlas said through the radio urgently. “ _Would you kindly stop the fucker from hurtin’ that baby girl!?_ ” He demanded.

Jack obliged, stepping into the room with the ADAM-hungry splicer.

He picked up the shotgun the splicer dropped and checked the ammunition. _One more shot._

The splicer turned around to challenge him. “ _Hey!_ Get yer own!” he snarled, then began to curse Jack. “ _ADAM thief, ADAM thief!_ ” He lifted the pipe in his hand and lunged to attack him.

Jack pressed the barrel of the shotgun against the splicer’s chest.

 The rest was history.

Jack dropped the now-unloaded shotgun, looking at the girl.

Then he was suddenly surprised by a bullet whizzing by his ear.

He clapped a hand over the side of his head in surprise as he looked up to the culprit.

“Not another step, _murderer_!” The woman said. “Don’t you believe that poor girl has been through enough?” She said in a thick German inflection.

“You must be Brigid Tenenbaum.” Jack said, lowering his wrench. “Charmed.”

“Don’t even try, Jack.” Atlas hissed. “Just because you hate me—“

“Look, I have a date with Steinman’s keycard.” Jack said, cutting Atlas off.

“Who are you?” Brigid said, aiming her pistol at him. “You are no ally.”

“My name’s Jack.” Jack replied. “I’m here to take care of Steinman, he’s my only way out of here.”

“Leave the girl, let her live.” She said. “I beg you.”

“I’m telling you, Jack—“ Atlas warned. “Tenenbaum is _not_ your enemy.”

“She’s _not_ exactly a _saint_.” He said to Atlas, then he looked back at Tenenbaum. “I’ll ask you again, I have business to take care of, doc. I’ll let the girl be, but you’ll have to do the same to me.”

“If you want your ADAM, use this—“ she threw a bottle down to him. “ _Bitte_... she has done _nothing_ to you.”

“Alright. _Deal._ ” Jack said, holding what he knew was a plasmid. _Eau de Exorcism._ “I’ll let the kid live.”

But something in the back of his mind was lying. 

“Thank you, stranger. They have suffered enough, they deserve freedom.” She offered him a kindly smile.

“Yeah.” Jack casted a look at the little girl, who was currently cowering.

“I _promise_ , I’ll make it to be worth your while.“

_Right._

Jack nodded. “ _Fine_.” He said curtly.

Tenenbaum left.

Jack looked to the Sister again.

“Jack, whatever you’re thinking...” Atlas said.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked, kneeling down to the girl. Who shrunk smaller in his presence.

“You don’t exactly have a good track record with choices, lad. _Don’t_. Just let her go.”

“Long time ago, I would’ve.” He grabbed the girl by the wrist sharply, inciting a whimper. “I ain’t saving her. Not this time.”

“Jack! _No—!_ ”

 

* * *

 

 “ _Liar_ ,” Tenenbaum snapped through the radio at Jack. “ _Monster_. That girl deserved to live, _der Mörder_. But perhaps you will see one day. They are not much different than you—confused, afraid.”

“She’s right, Jack—“ Atlas said, the horror evident in his tone. “She was only a wee one, Jack.” He added in a quavery voice. “She didn’t know what she did wrong to you.”

“ _Moralising_ , Atlas? You killed a bunch of people—not even an _hour_ into 1959. A new goddamn year. And you celebrated by slaughtering _hundreds_.”

“What are you doing, Jack...?” Atlas said intensely, offended.

“I’m _surviving_. That’s what matters, isn’t it? Your family’s wellbeing rides on it.” Jack looked down in pity at the slug, writhing futilely in his fist. “It isn’t always easy to choose, but it sure beats being down on yourself for not taking the leap.”

“Down the slippery slope, boyo.” Atlas criticised. “But I suppose what’s done is done, Jack. I don’t like it... but we can’t change it. Keep going, would you kindly? This place is a den o’ horrors.”

“Sounds good, Atlas.”

Jack proceeded to claim his ADAM...

But soon, Jack became dizzy. His skin crawled. His vision blurred. Some form of  karma, Jack thought.

“ _Atlas_...” Jack could feel _something_ leaving him, he felt cold—like he was being dragged into the dark depths of the ocean. Sinking ever further from the reaches of the sun.

“You okay, lad?” Atlas said. “You’re breathin’ a little...”

Images of the dead and dying flickered through Jack’s mind. Like some kind of warped film. He dropped stiffly to his knees as everything locked up.

Voices and memories, contained in the ADAM, filtered through many people and minds alike. Jack saw faces, and ghosts, in his haze, he fell.

He was now lying on the wet ground. Convulsing, his hand flickering with lightning, his eyes open and staring in his paralysis.

His mouth was heavy with ten flavours of metal.

“Boyo?” Atlas called. “ _Jack!_ ”

Soon, he was approached by someone else, wearing black rubberised boots and a formerly-white coat. “Aphrodite, yet another blank canvas... and this one is fresh on ADAM...”

Jack felt someone drag him, but he was too out of sorts to react. He could only be pulled along the floor like freshly-caught game.

Jack took this time to think back. _Far back._

At which point did he start to not care? At which point did Rapture change?

When did Jack stop feeling like _Jack_?

 

* * *

 

_Steinman... my dear Steinman. Your canvas is stirring. He must not wake._

_Yes, yes, my muse. He mustn’t. He must not move. Lest his beauty be... stolen from him. Oh—that damned radio will be a distraction. Must separate it from him when we’re ready to begin._

  _He does not come from Rapture, Steinman._

_He certainly does not—untouched. And that face, too soft—should cut it down. Perhaps he has come to inflict change._

_Or have it inflicted on him. Beauty is within your reach. Bring your goddess pride, Steinman._

_I will._

  

* * *

 

Jack woke up half-paralysed on a table, while something cold—but viscous—dripped on his face.

He couldn’t move his head, then noticed how cold he was, draped in a damp sheet, and what felt like a dentists’ bib around his neck.

Jack couldn’t reach his radio—which he could hear was somewhere below him.

He could faintly hear Atlas’ voice. Echoing back and forth in the room.

_Shit, shit... goddamn it._

He breathed uneasily, attempting to turn his head—concluding that there were plates keeping him from doing so.

Then he heard the sound of gloves being snapped on in the darkness, and quiet muttering.

Jack looked up to see what looked like crucified experiments. Failed art pinned to crude displays.

He had figured out what was dripping on him, now. _Not the worst wakeup call..._

The one called Steinman chuckled from the darkness. “Goddess, goddess, I am a _professional_ , I promise.” Then he spoke in a significantly softer voice. Incoherently so.

Jack heard the sound of a phonograph winding in the shadows. Music—soft, melodic, inappropriate—began to pour from the machine.

Jack felt the plates holding the sides of his head loosen. Letting Jack feel the full force of the headache that was in progress for a while. All at once.

Jack grimaced and tried to move, but all he felt was static in his arms and legs, nothing on his body wanted to move. Certainly he must have been out for quite some time.

”Doc,” Jack said dazedly. “I don’t want any trouble. I just need your keycard to get the hell out of here.”

“He is awake, Aphrodite. This is the one who has come for enlightenment.” He inspected Jack’s face, gripping his jaw in a suspiciously slick and sticky latex glove. “He is certainly no _Adonis_ , goddess.” He said, grinning down, turning Jack’s head to and fro to get every angle of imperfection. “But I’m sure we can do—mm— _something_ about that... _horrendous_ jawline. Don’t you think?”

He glanced at someone out of view—Jack wagered that the individual didn’t even _exist_. “You see, my soon-to-be-fair friend, the only trouble _I_ see is your far-too-even face. Fortunately, it only takes a _little_ bit of coaxing to get my goddess’ vision to prosper.”

He started to murmur again in a separate tone whilst opening a waterlogged instrument case.

“Oh! _Indeed_ , goddess! He is nothing like Rapture’s ever seen—he just seems to _glow_ with infinite possibilities, does he not?” Then he sighed wistfully. “It’s just a shame he’s so... _plain_.” He breathed the word out in distaste. “But like _any_ disease... it _can_ be cured.” He guffawed.

_Oh, you’re calling **me** ugly, you demented sonofabitch._

Jack winced when Steinman began to show off a few tools. “What do you think, goddess?” He seemed a little tossed up between two different types of scalpel. Both of them were visibly rusted. “Oh you’re right, my goddess!” He piped up in volume. “We should probably make sure he stays still.”

Jack heard something shift nearby, accompanied by the squeak of a valve being turned.

“Steinman, I’m telling you,” Jack bit by bit regained ability to move his arms and slowly reached his hand down the side of the medical table. “I’m not too keen on whatever vision your goddess has in mind.” He continued groping around the side. _Easy, Jack..._

“Can’t have that, now, can we?” Steinman chuckled disjointedly. “Oh, hush—after this is finished, you’ll thank me. You’ll be a brand new man.”

He placed the mask over Jack’s mouth and nose. And Jack tried even harder to grab for something beside the bed as he felt the light in his eyes start to fade away and his lids grow heavy.

Jack finally managed to touch what felt like a pretty solid item with his half-numb fingertips, gripped it as tightly as his hand allowed—then flung a pan full of used medical tools and dirty cleaning fluid at the mad doctor.

He swung his legs over the side and attempted to sit up.

Steinman dropped the plastic mask in surprise—Jack could hear it hiss faintly as the sleeping gas exuded from it.

“ _You are denying yourself beauty!_ ” Steinman howled while dropping the plastic mask and blocking his precious face with his arms. “Denying yourself the opportunity to escape your prison of... _monstrousness_!” He looked at Jack through a set of wide, bloodshot eyes, and spoke through his slack jawed mouth, his hands came after him, intending to wrap around Jack’s throat. “You _deserve_ your unsightliness, you _pig_! You did not come for enlightenment...” he said harshly. “ _You are that which will tear Rapture apart!_ ” His fingers were just about curled around Jack’s neck.

Jack took this chance and grabbed the dropped mask up, then reversed positions with the good doctor. “You have an awfully _fucked up_ idea of beauty, Steinman.” Jack growled.

He pressed the mask over Steinman’s mouth and nose.

Steinman could be heard, barely, while Jack continued to suffocate him. The doctor reaching up hopelessly to grasp for him.

Jack watched the glazy light behind Steinman’s crazed eyes begin to wane.

Then Jack removed the mask—leaving Steinman on the cusp of consciousness. On the very edge of awareness.

He whispered, drawing out his words. “ _I..._ ” his eyes rolled back a little, he blinked to keep consciousness. “ _... Could have made... you... a god._ ”

Jack reached the nadir of his patience, picking up one of the felled rusty scalpels that Steinman had endeavoured to use on him.

” _Goddess, I do believe Rapture has someone new to play with..._ ”

Surely Aphrodite cried that day.

 

* * *

 

Jack picked up the radio after retrieving his gear from the table below. “Atlas?”

“Thank god, _boyo_!” Atlas gasped. “I lost you for a while, there. What happened?”

“I got the key, Atlas.” Jack said. “All it took was getting kidnapped by the _artiste_ , it turns out.”

“ _Good lord_ , Jack...” Atlas said, dumbfounded. “The guy used to retrieve prisoners back in the day to practice his _technique_ on. Poor saps were stuck in their own heads while Steinman worked.”

“Speaking of which, I have a headache, Atlas, let’s just get your goddamned family out of here.” Jack ran a hand uncomfortably through his hair—it was sticky and clumped with what he could only say was blood.

“I don’t understand, Jack—what the _hell_ did he do to you?”

“Nothing—but the guy kept mumbling about his goddess and change and beauty.”

“Don’t suppose he gave you his key out o’ pity?”

“No.” Jack said softly, looking at Steinman’s body lying bleeding on the operating table. “Died in his sleep.” He said vaguely, wiping his bloody hands on the damp coat draped over the table he was at.

“ _Jesus christ._ ” Atlas exclaimed with revulsion.

“Said I’d be ‘that which tears Rapture apart’.” Jack rolled his eyes. “ _This’ll be useful..._ ” Jack mumbled offhandedly, picking up a Tommy Gun, leaning on the leg of the table.

“That’s quite a _stretch_ ,” Atlas said. “Well, considerin’ the place is already two steps away from being a scrap heap at the bottom o’ the ocean.” Atlas cleared his throat. “Take that there key to the station, would you kindly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — When I played Bioshock, I could NOT bring myself to harvest the Little Sisters. Jack harvests the Sister here to defy Atlas, who wanted the Sister rescued. Opposite to usual, where Atlas would insist you harvest her.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — This li’l story’s supposed to simulate the “replay value” of the game after you finish it.
> 
> — Jack does have a slight, godawful southern accent in headcanon land that (though he struggles to suppress it) comes out in times of great stress. Slipping accents seem to be a running thing, eh?
> 
> — The original titles for this were “The Circle Be Broken”, and “Chains of Repetition”.


End file.
